Sports Bar!: Sex, Booze & Celebrity Hijinks at Mickey Mantle's, America's Most Famous Sport Bar

By William Liederman

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• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781456750145

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SPORTS BAR!

Sex, Booze & Celebrity Hijinks at Mickey Mantle’s,

America’s Most Famous Sport Bar

William Liederman

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AuthorHouse™

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This book was originally published in hard cover under the name of: Mickey Mantle’s, Behind the Scenes at America’s Most Famous Sports Bar by Lyons Press in 2007.

© 2012 William Liederman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/20/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5016-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5015-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5014-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916176

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

FOREWORD

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

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27

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29

To Laura, the love of my life,

and my children, Chloe, Mack, Emmy and Teddie.

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After the first embellishment, you never exaggerate. —Mickey Mantle

FOREWORD

Two things happened the year I was in second grade: my father opened Mickey Mantle’s, and I fell victim to my very first crush. His name was Matthew, and I knew little about him except that, (a) he was a Yankees fan (but who wasn’t?), and (b) he had a very, very large head. During snack time and recess, I always used to steal little glances in his direction and wonder what was going on in that great big cranial dome of his. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with me, the little blond in OshKosh overalls pining for him from three desks away. He never even looked in my direction.

Well, what the hell’s the matter with that kid? my doting father wanted to know. Doesn’t he know that you’re the sweetest, smartest, and most beautiful girl in the whole second grade?

No, I whimpered, head in hand. That’s the problem: I like him and he doesn’t like me.

Well, my father reasoned, what does he like? What are his interests? If you like a boy in your class, you should go over and talk to him, find out what you two have in common.

The next morning, I swapped the overalls for my best dress and a pair of patent-leather Mary-Janes. Then I snuck some of my mom’s lip gloss and headed for school, single-minded in my focus on the task at hand. Stuffing my coat and backpack into my cubby, I sauntered on over to the boy with the big head before I could talk myself out of it. He was standing alone in a beam of morning light coming through the classroom windows, sorting through a stack of three-by-four-inch cards. Hi, I offered, leaning seductively against the desk nearest my crush. What are you doing?

Baseball cards, he mumbled, without moving his eyes from the wad of cardboard in his chubby, grubby hands.

Cool, I replied. I have a baseball card, too.

Wow, he snorted, rolling his eyes, one whole baseball card. Can I be you?

Well … it’s a really good one, I countered, letting his dig roll off my back. It’s a Hank Aaron.

And with that, I had caught his attention. My heart soared as his eyes met mine for the first time in the conversation. (At four foot-six, he was the only boy in the class who surpassed me in height, and it was highly romantic.)

Hank Aaron? he cried. You mean an original?

Yeah, it’s an original, I assured him. My daddy gave it to me.

You must have a really cool dad, he murmured, eyes wide with envy. Is Hank Aaron your favorite ballplayer of all time?

Yes, I said, although I didn’t really have a favorite. Who’s yours?

Mickey Mantle, he declared, without missing a beat.

So did you talk to him? my father asked me that evening at dinnertime.

Yeah, was my uninspired reply.

And do you think he likes you?

No, I said. He likes someone else.

And who’s that? my father asked.

Mickey Mantle.

This pronouncement amused my father to no end, and as he sat there laughing at my expense the way adults so often did, I wished someone would let me in on the joke. As it turned out, it wouldn’t be long until someone did.

Several weeks later, my father told me that he was starting a new business, a restaurant called Mickey Mantle’s.

Like the baseball guy? I asked him.

Like the baseball guy, he affirmed. In fact, you’ll get to meet the baseball guy next week when he comes into town. The baseball guy is going to be Daddy’s new business partner.

This news, of course, went straight back to school with me the next morning, garnering not only Matthew’s attention, but that of every other boy in the class to boot. In the few seconds it took me to rattle off the good word, I became the most popular girl in my class. Everyone wanted to sit by me at story time and lunch. Everyone wanted to be my buddy for our upcoming field trip to the Museum of Natural History. When I was the snack monitor two days later, and the teacher asked who would like to help me with the job, hands shot up around the room like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It was as if some of Mickey’s star dust had rubbed off on me, and everyone hovered close by, hoping to glean some remnant of the majestic fallout.

I was jazzed. My plan was working better than I ever could have imagined, and before long, it was time to raise the stakes. The next week during recess, I let slip to my newfound entourage that there would be a great, big party at Mantle’s to celebrate the opening, casually mentioning that tons of stars were going to be there.

Stars like who? Matthew wanted to know.

Stars like Reggie Jackson, I bragged, digging into my memory for the names I had heard my father throw around on the ever-increasing number of business calls that came through our home. Stars like Don Johnson and George Michael and Ed Koch! (What can I say? … It was the eighties.)

And don’t forget Mickey Mantle, Matthew reminded us, nudging me in the ribs with a freckled elbow. Mickey Mantle’s gonna be there, too, right Chloe? I loved him so much I thought my heart would sprout wings and fly right out of my mouth.

Sure he’ll be there, I boasted, jutting my chin out ever so slightly. He’ll be there and I’ll get you his autograph, if you want it.

The entire playground fell silent for the moment that followed, and I knew I’d be Matt’s girl forever. Or at least until Christmas break. Excellent.

So what’s new with big head? my father asked me later that day.

Not much, I mused, twirling a golden curl around my finger. We’re going out. What? Going where? he wanted to know. Daddy, I sighed, we’re not actually going anywhere. We’re just ‘going out.’ You know, like boyfriend-girlfriend.

Oh. Swell.

So I have to get him Mickey’s autograph at the big party.

Is that what he told you?

No, that’s what I told him.

Oh, honey, my father sighed, turning me to face him, don’t be promising autographs out to the kids at school. It’s a bad idea. What happens if you can’t make good on your promise?

I didn’t promise.

Promise?

Promise.

Okay, he agreed, ruffling the hair atop my head. Now go put your shoes on because Grandma will be here any minute. She’s taking you to Bloomingdale’s to get a new dress for opening night.

Opening Night was well worthy of capital letters. My father unveiled his long-awaited project to a chorus of Dom Perignon corks popping from their long-necked bottles. I remember looking at my father in his tuxedo and thinking, That’s my dad. As children, we learn to be proud of ourselves when we learn to read or ride a bike, but this was the first time I could remember feeling truly proud of another person’s accomplishments.

For my part, I stepped on Don Johnson’s foot, got a live radio interview with Spencer Ross on WFAN, snuck my first-ever glass of champagne, got lost in the crowd (literally), and wound up on Yankee manager Billy Martin’s lap as he patted my head and Mickey tried to soothe me with murmurs of, Don’t crah, little darlin’ … Don’t crah …

I also got Mickey Mantle’s autograph for my boyfriend. I remember watching Mickey’s massive hands, like meat hooks, as he scrawled it across a brand new baseball and personalized it, To Matthew.

All in all, the night was an outrageous success, and I would ascribe the very same pedigree to the restaurant itself, as it was, and as I will always remember it: my dad’s place.

Chloe Liederman

1

WATCHING THE CLOCK

I never liked school. I was a compulsive clock-watcher. Of course, the more you watch the clock, the slower it ticks. My clearest memories of academia include willing the minute hands of various classroom wall clocks to make their pokey circuits that much faster, and the unbearable restlessness I felt in my wraparound desk chair.

My clock-watching began at the Little Brook Elementary School in Princeton, New Jersey, and traveled northeast with me to Great Neck South in Great Neck, Long Island, when my parents moved the family there in 1967. I was a gangly junior at South when, about three weeks into the fall term, I wandered into Mr. Stern’s Algebra II class late. There I slouched in the doorway, complete with love beads, Indian moccasins, and an oversize belt buckle shaped like a peace sign.

Mr. Liederman, Stern greeted me, so kind of you to join us.

No problem, I told him, giving my shaggy, black hair a righteous toss.

You’re ten minutes late, he observed. What’s your excuse?

Algebra is irrelevant to my life, I murmured, as my classmates watched in slack-jawed stupor.

Excuse me?

I said algebra is irrelevant to my life.

Mr. Stern slammed down his eraser, sending wisps of chalky dust into the air like gun smoke.

If algebra is irrelevant to your life, he announced, then you are irrelevant to this classroom. Get out.

Of course, there were certain things I liked about school: flirting with girls, free periods, lunch, and gym, to name a few. I’d recently gone from being the class jock/jerk in Princeton to the school hippie in Great Neck. The previous year, I’d won the New Jersey State high school tennis championship tournament, but I didn’t want to ruin my new image, so I replaced conventional team sports like soccer, basketball, and baseball with less traditional group activities, such as smoking grass in the woods beyond the playing field and plotting to occupy the school.

By the time senior year rolled around, I was at an age where I thought I knew pretty much everything there was to know about life. So at seventeen, I channeled my nuclear energy into organizing Great Neck South’s first ever Free School curriculum. Free School was a forum for alternative learning. Subject matter ranged from black power to women’s studies to sexual politics and the like. Students actually attended Free School classes during their free periods in order to counteract the numbing effects of irrelevant topics such as Algebra II.

I also headed a huge fund drive for the starving children of Biafra and got Dave Van Ronk to give a benefit concert. I joined a radical studies reading group. In the political tumult of 1969, I helped to found Great Neck South’s chapter of SDS, Students for a Democratic Society. And through it all, I somehow maintained a B+ average. By the middle of my senior year, I’d completed all credits required for graduation except senior English and Social Studies. I wanted my diploma, but I knew it was time for me to bust out of high school.

My father was a professor of psychology at SUNY College at Old Westbury. The university offered an accredited, semester-long Spanish immersion program in Cuernavaca, Mexico, for high school students with good marks in English. Not only would I graduate on time, but I would learn to speak Spanish and earn college credits as well. I’d also return an international man of mystery, and the chicks would dig it. It seemed to me like a real win-win situation.

Since I was only one English class and one history class short of graduation, one of my teachers turned me onto the University of Nebraska Extension School where I could take these two classes through the mail in Cuernavaca and still finish high school on time. The mail-in classes were a tit job, but the opposite was true of Spanish class, where nobody knew anything. Four hours a day, Señor Gomez, myself, and three other students would engage in grueling, round-the-table drills. But unlike Algebra II, I knew that Spanish would come in handy. By the time I left Mexico at the end of spring semester, I was pretty fluent in Español. I’ve since lost a lot of it, but I can still prattle away with the best of ’em in my flattened, gringo staccato. It may be a bit awkward, but it gets the job done.

My accent is sketchy, but my comprehension is pretty sharp. I understand nearly everything I hear in Spanish—a major advantage in the restaurant business. I’ve tried to hide this ability from my employees over the years, in order to be a fly on the kitchen wall.

A year later, I enrolled in Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, New York, as part of the school’s first-ever coed freshman class. It had long been a private women’s college, but I was about to cross the sexual picket line. In the fall of 1971, I was one of only six intrepid men to infiltrate the system. The administration stuck us half-dozen brave pioneers into a suite in the basement of a women’s dormitory and waited to see what would happen.

A large portion of the student body was of the lesbian persuasion—and there was no breaking through that force field. The rest, however, stopped busing to Yale, Princeton, and Harvard for mixers and started looking in their own backyard. They pounced on the six of us like a pack of hungry she-wolves.

This may sound like all that and a bag of chips to any red-blooded American man, but it turned out to be hell on earth. The social pressure became so enormous that I took myself out of the loop and started seeing Rosemary, a beautiful Latina who was studying with my father at SUNY–Old Westbury.

My two fondest memories of Sarah Lawrence are the following.

1. Spanish literature: Mexico had made me good enough to fake my way through class discussions. However, my reading comprehension left something to be desired, so I bought the Cliffs Notes to One Hundred Years of Solitude and spun the chapter summaries into witty and deeply insightful Spanish classroom banter about life in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s finely drawn literary landscape. The professor took me for a cunning linguist. Little did she know I’d been hangin’ with Cliff. I took home an A–. The handwritten evaluation read as follows: "Bill has outstanding reading comprehension in the Spanish language. His comments on One Hundred Years were consistently thoughtful, and demonstrated full command of the material. His conversation skills, however, leave a lot to be desired. His accent has failed to develop, and his rapid-fire delivery jars the listener. If Bill should choose to continue in this field, I suggest he take a remedial course in Spanish conversation." In retrospect, I think my experience in New York City restaurants has more than fulfilled that requirement.

2. Basketball: Sarah Lawrence maintained an association with Bronx Community College, a few clicks down the Deegan Expressway. I outgrew my anti-jock sentiments and